Cardboard Castles
by Legendary Armor
Summary: Robert/Booker, post-game. Booker DeWitt has been given one more chance, and Robert Lutece will not allow him to fail.
1. Chapter 1

_"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,_

_Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before..."_

_-Edgar Allen Poe_

* * *

It was over.

Soft whispers and tiny giggles were the only sound in the room now that her crying had stopped, and his racing heart began to calm. Booker cradled his daughter in his arms, rocking her back and forth gently as he told her over and over how much he loved her. How he would give her a better life. How he'd turn it all around. How it would be different this time.

He felt like a man waking from a nightmare.

How'd it end up like this? The scent of stale booze permeated the chilly air of the house; empty bottles decorated his desk and the floor alongside half-smoked cigarettes and various trash. The clothes he wore were half a week old at best, and nearly every bit of of the place was in disuse and disrepair.

Anna deserved better.

Where had this sudden resolve come from? Why the sudden disgust spurring him? Was it the unsettling dreams that he couldn't quite remember? Something about... selling her? Murder, more and more, and... He didn't know. He couldn't recall it, but his stomach turned just at the thought of losing her, at the thought of hurting her.

He would change, he thought as he checked his reflection in the sepia glass of a dusty bottle. He brushed lank hair back from his eyes, framed by dark circles sitting high over gaunt cheekbones sporting days of unshaven stubble. The floorboards creaked as he paced, holding his face in his hands; the headache he sported was larger than Lady Liberty herself. Generally, he'd find the cure at the bottom of a drink. But not today.

Not anymore.

Gambling wasn't doing them any good. He was being stupid. He was wasting any chance at a future and putting them deep into a debt he'd never get them out of if he didn't get a hold on himself. Some might say he was still a kid, sure, but suddenly Booker felt a hell of a lot more aware of his recent missteps. And besides - he'd done enough to haunt the nightmares of scores of men. God knew they haunted _him_ well enough.

Best not to think about that.

Not now. That's what had landed him here in the first place. A new bounce showed in his heel, a new fire in his step as he circled the room. What could he do? How could he make them a living that didn't involve committing horrors upon others? He wasn't skilled at anything besides brutality.

...Was he?

From the other room, he heard Anna coo from the open doorway. He'd figure it out. He had to, for her sake if nothing else. There had to be something, anything he could do - shine shoes, maybe, fix things -

A rough knock at the door broke through the quiet, startling him from his reverie. Again it came a moment later, insistent. _Who the hell -_

A voice - an eerily familiar voice. He could swear he heard the man on the other side somewhere before, and a thrill of anxiety raced through his blood at the calling of his name. He felt dizzy with it, and he didn't know why.

"Mr. DeWitt!"

Again with the rapping. Booker stepped forward, angry and apprehensive.

His hand reached for the doorknob.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Do not be afraid; our fate_

_Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."_

-Dante Alighieri

* * *

"Who's there?" He could barely hear his own hoarse voice. His throat burned.

"Mr. DeWitt!"

"I'm - I'm coming." Whoever it is, they still couldn't hear him, and the knocking continued.

The old metal knob was cold on his palm as the door opened with a creak, and the harsh light of day made him squint. He wasn't sure what'd he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't the man standing in front of him. Too fancy. His suit was crisp and freshly ironed, pale green; he was a ginger with bright blue eyes, a few years older than Booker himself. Mid-20s, maybe.

"Don't have any money, pal."

"I'm not a collector, Mr. DeWitt-"

"Well, I ain't buyin', either." He turned to close the door, but the other man reached out to grab his shoulder.

"Wait! A moment, please. I don't happen to be selling anything." His confidence and poise of just a few moments ago seemed to melt away to awkwardness in an instant. "You've a daughter-"

Booker crossed his arms and leaned on the doorway. The other man might be older, but he wasn't as strong or as dangerous.

Probably.

"What about her?"

The ginger raised his pale, manicured hands in a gesture of peace. "Easy, DeWitt. I'm just here to help."

"Tch." Booker's eyes narrowed. "You come callin' for me and my girl, but I don't even know your name, pal."

He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his freckled nose. "Forgive my lack of manners. I'm Robert Lutece; I'm a physicist living not far from here." He held out one hand to shake, and Booker took it, albeit warily. "I have heard of your troubles, and I have a desire to lend my aid, if you'll accept it."

"Robert, then. How'd my name get to your ears, let alone my problems?"

"The wealthy and the government love their gossip, and I pass by them rather often." He puts his hands behind his back, shifting his weight a little. "My point is, Mr. DeWitt, that I know you... lack a career or solid path, yet you have a daughter to raise alone. The world is often unkind to those in such dire straits, and I'd like to help."

Booker ran a hand over his stubble. "I don't see what's in it for you, Lutece. Well-to-do physicist I never seen before comes knockin' at my door, sayin' he's gonna turn me and my girl's life around? Been alive long enough to know when somethin's too good to be true."

Robert remained unflustered - outwardly, at least. What could he tell the ex-soldier - that he'd dreamt of them, that he felt _drawn_ to the wayward DeWitts for a reason he didn't understand? Even hearing their name had struck a chord deep down, and he hadn't known why. He knew only that he must help them, and if that meant marching up to his door and offering his services, so be it.

He cleared his throat. "I'm a lonely man, Mr. DeWitt. No need to look at me so, I can't imagine that you've had much pleasant company recently yourself. My point is, it would benefit both sides, don't you think? My conscience would be eased, we would be less chained to the madness accompanied with mostly solitary lives, and your daughter could grow up without being surrounded by trash and a broken father drowning in debt."

Booker just looked at him like he was insane. Robert shifted uneasily.

"I'm not sure I know what you're askin'," the gambler muttered.

"It's quite simple," Robert said with a smile. "Allow me to treat you to dinner."


	3. Chapter 3

_"One need not be a chamber to be haunted."_

-Emily Dickenson

* * *

Booker's eyebrows damn near shot up to his hairline.

"You _serious_?"

"Well, of course," Robert replied with no hint of shame. "What better way to start this off than with a fine meal for you and Anna?"

"Oh." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I thought you meant... Whatever. I still don't get why you're so set on doin' this."

Lutece shrugged, his blue eyes unwavering. "Perhaps altruism is not entirely dead, Mr. DeWitt."

Booker laughed dryly. "Right. What the hell, I'll take you up on this, see how it works."

Robert just smiled. "You won't regret it. Shall we go now, then? It'll be late before long."

"Uh... sure, I guess. I'll get Anna ready."

The short walk back through his office did little to calm the multitude of thoughts racing through Booker's mind. The most striking thing about Lutece wasn't his sudden appearance and generous (if strange) offer, or even his bright hair or sky-blue eyes.

It was how _familiar_ he was.

He could swear he knew him from somewhere, but he couldn't even begin to think of where that could be. The same strange feeling he'd had when he awoke, the determination to turn his life around, was hitting him full force once more - telling him that Robert Lutece was trustworthy, that he was a friend, and he really was there to help.

Insane.

He tucked his revolver in his vest and a knife in his boot before going back to Anna's room. On the edge of the crib was a tiny dress, plain and worn. She smiled up at him with nothing but adoration as he dressed her, and giggled when he placed her, swaddled in a thin blanket, in a woven wooden basket her mother had made by hand.

His thoughts were no less uneasy as he met Robert again on the porch, locking the door behind him. Lutece smiled down at his daughter for a moment before motioning for him to follow.

* * *

"You seem ill at ease."

"Can't imagine why." Of course he was. Booker was a black sheep here; the restaurant's glamor was far beyond his price range. A chandelier glittered overhead that likely cost more than his entire office, and one glance at the menu was enough to tell Booker that he couldn't identify half its contents. He selected something at random as his daughter smiled sleepily at the bright lights, Lutece sipping at a glass of wine on his opposite side and smiling apologetically.

Dinner passed in uneasy silence before they left, Robert graciously escorting them back home in the deepening twilight. He offered the younger man a hopeful glance and a wave of his hand before turning away, and Booker's nerves sang with a thousand unasked questions.

How could he rest easy? Despite Lutece's generous kindness - or perhaps, even _because_ of it - Booker was unsettled. A shiver rattled his form and goosebumps raised along his arms as he drew his worn blanket closer to himself in the night, his hands clammy and his thoughts a maelstrom even as unconsciousness took him. A thousand terrors echoed through his sleep, and he did not rest easy.

But then, he never could.


End file.
